I am clothed by the dead
my daughter’s breathtaking
jackets she stitched herself or
pulled from the buck-a-bag
at a minneapolis thrift store
a kashmir from india via
the smithsonian she had an
eye for the beautiful valuable
ditto my mother’s crazy hats
my father’s heavy collared
frayed sweater full of holes my
grandma’s quilt I sleep under
(as a kid I watched her make it)
my best friend’s pullover it
comes to my knees covers
the open seam in the seat of
my favorite pants so I don’t
need to repair them well why
not be garbed by those now
gone every particle of our
living flesh is made of dust
from exploding super nova
billions of years ago is being
recycled forever through the
bodies of the quick and the
dead minerals veggies animals
and will continue so when
our earth a spinning cinder
in the milky way is clothed
by baby stars not yet born
This article appears in Feb 25 – Mar 2, 2016.
